


The Pencil

by Curispy



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Other, Pencil, Regret, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26558500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curispy/pseuds/Curispy
Summary: "Why… why… why is this all I can draw?"Kieran White, the Purple Hyacinth, cannot draw.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	The Pencil

**Author's Note:**

> An episode that was loosely based off of episode 54, but I just hadn't gotten around to posting it. There were some edits I meant to address, but I just felt it was better to post it. I think it's fine without the edits. Certainly not the best it could be, but I just wanted to post it.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it regardless!

_Why… why… why is this all I can draw?_

Kieran threw his pencil on the floor, fracturing the long tip. He had spent ages carving the wood away from the graphite center, but it didn’t matter now. The carefully preserved lead was in pieces on the floor. He could care less.

The assassin had a long night, though it was nothing short of typical for him: kill off some monarch loyalist and report back to the Phantom Scythe. Lately, his victims were of the upper class, which was horribly gentrified in Ardhalis. His most recent victim was a man in his early 80s, a businessman of sorts. His wealth did nothing but enable the monarchy, according to the Apostle. Therefore... he had to die.

Death was hardly something to sneeze at, but as the arbiter of Death himself, Kieran no longer found it a big deal. His job was to simply take the life of others. However, there was a greater irony.

Unfortunately, that particular businessman did not just go to die, but to Kieran’s drawing board—in broad lines and soft edges. Few would expect the Purple Hyacinth to _draw_ in his free time, but the assassin was truly a skilled artist. After a long day at work, he wanted to do nothing but revel in his passion, as many people do. He wished to replace the friction of the knife with the friction of pencil on paper. He hoped he could rehabilitate his muscle’s memories. However, it was a fruitless pursuit. His hand had remembered the likeness of his victim from eye to lips, and sought to recreate it on paper.

This was a recurring problem for the assassin, ever since he started killing. While he stole his victims’ lives in murder, he returned them in portraiture. He had the terrible ability of replicating folds in skin and rendering the reflective surface of eyes. Each drawing captured its subject with such lifelike capacity that one would expect it to leap off the page _._

But into whose arms?

He slammed his hand against the drawing board and crumpled the paper, creating folds against along its matte surface.

_Keep him dead, keep him dead!_ _He is already DEAD._

Silence.

That was the glaring realization. The Purple Hyacinth’s victims were dead, and there was nothing Kieran White could do about it. He covered his face with his hands and sunk into his chair.

_They’re dead._

With his shattered resolve, he let pervasive thoughts consume him. In the low of that moment, Kieran almost forgot why he even loved drawing, or rather, if he could. It was one thing to lose one’s passion to disapproval, but it was another yet to lose it to trauma. However, to even fathom losing art to his awful career—it was even more painful than all his killings combined.

At that thought, Kieran felt his passion reignite. No matter how painful it was, he could not give up drawing.

_I must, I have to try… and draw again._

Instinctively, he picked up his pencil and put it on the paper. However, he remembered that he had to re-sharpen the pencil… which was a rather laborious task.

_Nevermind that_ , Kieran thought. He shook both his head and doubt away. _Effort and passion will keep my mind off his damned face._

From his wooden pencil box, he procured a short blade. Readying himself, he placed it against the pencil. _Careful now. The angle has to be just right._

After some trial and error, he found the appropriate angle and began shaving away. Pencil carving itself was some sort of art; one had to carve long strips of wood of consistent thinness. Too thick and one would risk shaving away or even breaking the precious graphite. And if the strips were too thin? Well, one would not get very far with sharpening their pencil. Luckily for Kieran, he was experienced with the blade. Pencil carving was almost therapeutic to him.

_Strip, strip, strip._

Kieran soon found his rhythm, shaving and turning the pencil with great coordination, as if he were some sort of machine. Quickly, he was approaching the graphite core. He began budding with happiness at the anticipation of drawing. He had now forgotten his restless thoughts and became lost to the routine.

_Strip, turn. Strip, turn. Strip, turn. Strip—_

The blade slipped from Kieran’s hand and into his left index finger. He winced in pain, but he would not let a cut stop his euphoria.

_Strip, turn. Strip, turn—_

Kieran’s blood began to drip over his pencil. Still, he refused to stop. The blood oozed its way into the deeper layers of the wood, which was permanently stained. It was gross. It was unsanitary. It, however, brought Kieran joy. Each strip of the pencil now revealed a deeper layer of red wood, colored in blood. Visually, it was if he was skinning his pencil like it was human flesh and—

Kieran once again threw the pencil down, this time in horror. The force from his throw was so strong, that the shock disemboweled the lead from the pencil, shattering it in midair. The poor pencil, or what remained of it, now lay on the ground amongst its skins of wood and guts of graphite.

Kieran did not think, did not dare to clean up his mess. Instead, he rushed to the bathroom to throw up in the toilet. Immediately, the horrible memories of his night caught up to him.

_At 8 o’clock, he broke into the bedroom of his victim, who was fast asleep. Thankfully, this would be a swift and painless death. Kieran slit his throat and promptly dragged the man out of bed. Once on the floor, Kieran began to take off the man’s clothes and sliced him from navel to jugular._

_The Leader never wanted kills to be made without a statement. He usually included special instructions for each murder. For this particular victim… skin him, and carve out his heart to be mailed to his loved ones._

_Strip, turn. Strip, turn._

_Years of experience taught Kieran it was most efficient to shave skin in long, consistent strips. The thinner the skinning, the more blood vessels exposed, and... the bloodier the scene._

_If it’s a statement he wants… it’s a statement he must get._

_Kieran was skilled with the blade. In record time, he skinned the man in just ten minutes. Now was the coup de grace. He stood up and pointed his blade at the man’s chest, readying it at just the right angle. With calibrated force, he was able to free the man’s heart from the sinews, veins, and arteries. To dislodge the heart, however, Kieran wiggled his blade in the man’s chest cavity. In doing so, he effectively ruined and disemboweled the surrounding organs, leaving an utter mess at the scene._

_With the heart intact and in hand, he prepared to make his getaway. He made sure to leave his mark, the signature purple hyacinth, before stowing away into the night._

For the second time, Kieran threw up. It was now almost morning and he barely slept, let alone entertained his chance to draw. Clearly, he was in no position to draw, and he had sullied his only good pencil. He could not think nor process after recalling his traumatic experience, but one thing was certain.

_I can’t do it._

_I._

_I can’t._

_I won’t._

_Draw._


End file.
